


An Unreliable Narrative

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Desert Island Fic, Fanfiction, M/M, McShep Match Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strike>In which I save Rodney from starvation.</strike> An account of the shipwreck and rescue of one John Sheppard by Dr. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unreliable Narrative

**Author's Note:**

> Written for McShep Match 2012 (for team Space). The prompt was: "gift horse".  
> Enormous thanks to my beta **Busaikko** for reading, suggestions and encouragement.

 

\----ooOoo----

Journal of Dr. M. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD.  
Day 10 upon this shore  
August (date unknown), 1874

If I believed in an Almighty I should take him severely to task for having preserved my life only to fetch me up here, marooned on this hellish and deserted shore. I curse the day I elected to take passage on the ill-fated sailing vessel _Pacific Pearl_ , rather than a modern steamer. However, due to the crippling lack of recognition granted by the short-sighted to men of science such as myself, my funds did not stretch to a modern steamship berth.

In the interests of scientific endeavor, I sacrificed my own comfort in order to arrive at the Isles of Hawaii to join the British expedition observing the Transit of Venus in December. My telescope, purchased at great personal hardship out of my severely limited funds as an ill-paid lecturer at New Brunswick University, is now at the bottom of the ocean, a home for crustaceans, and of no use to me even if the Transit is visible from this tropical hell-hole.

I do not believe rescue will be forthcoming. The storm which wrecked our vessel blew for many days, driving us far off course to the south-west. Only my advanced grasp of the principles of physics saved me, for I am not a strong swimmer. I was, however, sufficiently spurred on by fear of the depths below, in which all manner of fearsome beasts such as whales undoubtedly lurk, so as to construct a superior flotation device out of oilskins and tarred barrels. I attempted to demonstrate my invention to the Captain, who laughed in my face and declared his ship "sound as a nut". As ever, I am surrounded by idiots.

Events proved our Captain sadly misguided, but I will not dwell on his criminal lack of judgement or the terror of the storm. I will not dwell on the cries of the passengers and seamen whose deaths I witnessed as they were swept away in the boiling seas. The two survivors I hauled onto my raft were half-drowned and I could not restore them in the days we spent drifting after the ship went down. They slipped into the water and were lost when I myself was barely conscious, delirious from thirst under the pitiless sun. Had this beach on which I was cast by the waves not had its own fresh-water stream, I should not have lived another day.

I must find some means to survive, and this journal's purpose is to preserve my sanity, not to undo it through painful recollection. I have salvaged what I can from the waves, as the currents which deposited me here have also brought much flotsam to this beach from the shipwreck. No other souls from the ship have I discovered, either living or drowned. Many of the barrels cast ashore have been ruined by salt water, but there is one sealed cask of ship's biscuit which will sustain me a short while. My heart lifted when I realized the contents were intact, and later, when I opened a battered trunk washed up beyond the rocks to find this oilskin-sealed packet of notepaper and a supply of pencils, I was further cheered. Activity of the mind has ever proved my salvation.

I have made a start in recording my vicissitudes, but my hand falters now and the light is fading. I am exhausted, sunburned, and badly bruised. Perhaps tonight I will be tired enough to sleep, despite the fearsome nocturnal screeches which echo from the jungle. The stars – burning impossibly bright here – are my companions. An astronomer could ask no greater comfort.

\----ooOoo----

John watched the ragged man fail yet again to catch a fish. In the days since he had discovered his fellow castaway and had been secretly observing him, John had begun thinking of him as "Crusoe". He resembled the illustrations in the dogeared picture book from John's childhood nursery in Virginia, although the man on the beach still sported European clothing, albeit very much the worse for wear, and his skin was pink rather than tan. John's Crusoe also had rather less hair than his literary namesake, which was possibly why he had constructed a wide hat out of palm fronds and twigs. His beard was scruffy, far less lush than John's, but then John had always needed recourse to a barber more than most men – not that he'd bothered shaving regularly since taking to life at sea.

John shifted position to relieve a cramp in his left leg, souvenir of an old injury gained hunting wild boar on the island's northern slopes last rainy season. He had tried to keep track of the days, tallying notches on a tree, but was aware that he had lost some time due to bouts of fever, so he was no longer sure if he had been on the island for six months, or considerably longer. However many months it had been since the clipper on which he had been sailing was lost, he had never seen another human being until stumbling on the evidence of a fresh shipwreck while walking the perimeter of the island, and then hearing the ragged castaway ranting as he stabbed a stick futilely into a rock pool.

Crusoe seemed to vent his spleen a great deal, often raging at the elements, the sun, biting insects, and particularly at the fish which repeatedly evaded his poorly-made bamboo spears. John could see Crusoe was not physically adept. He had him pegged as an indoors fellow, a scholar or teacher most likely, although some of his constructions were ingenious. He had rigged up a shelter out of broken spars and canvas, cantilevered cleverly to give maximum shade while remaining open to any wandering breeze.

John glanced across at the shelter, set close to the stream and midway between the high tide mark and the jungle's edge. He approved of its positioning, but doubted that Crusoe knew how lethal coconuts falling from palm trees fringing the jungle could be – he had made it clear in his rants that he mistrusted the dense vegetation as he feared it housed dangerous predators. In that he was mistaken: other than birds and the wild pigs, the island had no animal life at all apart from rats, doubtless the offspring of past shipwreck survivors.

From his vantage point at the jungle's edge, John could see the coconut that Crusoe had, bizarrely, adopted and kept in his shelter. He had carved irregular features on it and had taken to calling it "Newton" and regaling it with long diatribes about various academic rivals whom he apparently mistrusted and believed were trying to steal his work. John wondered at the waste of energy, although perhaps being cast up here, seemingly alone, had unhinged the man.

Perhaps he was unhinged himself, thought John, unsure why he had lurked unseen for several days and merely observed, when surely he should have immediately announced himself and offered assistance. His reaction on first encountering Crusoe had been complex – fear and excitement, longing and an odd resentment, as though the island were rightfully his and this man an usurper.

John was not given to introspection and mistrusted emotional displays. In the months he had lived here he had largely acted on instinct and had become unused to human company. Silence and solitude were all that he knew now, so perhaps that was why he had hidden and observed, finding his companion to be an English speaker, most probably harmless, eccentric but not dangerously deranged, and likely to die soon of starvation or at least malnutrition. Coconuts were plentiful enough, and Crusoe had a knife with which he attacked them – with more energy than efficiency, but eventually managing to crack them open. More evidence of Crusoe's unfitness for life here – even the smallest children in the tropics knew how to knock out a coconut's eyes and drink the milk within, but this castaway seemed painfully ignorant. He had a dwindling supply of what seemed to be salvaged biscuit, but he would not survive unless he learned to catch fish or find fresh meat: the rats were good eating, roasted over a fire.

Crusoe cursed again, narrowly missing stabbing his own foot as he slipped on a rock while attempting to skewer a fish. He flung the splintered bamboo stick into the sea and sat down, head in hands, in the shallows. His pitiable weeping was audible over the regular hiss and crash of the waves, and it was suddenly unbearable to John, who crept back into the forest and headed for the next cove where he had left his own fishing spear and supplies. This had gone on long enough.

\----ooOoo----

Journal of Dr. M. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD.  
Day 18 upon this shore

I have a companion! Truth be told, I did not react well when he first made himself known, appearing from the forest clutching a fearsomely barbed spear. I may have emitted an unmanly cry and briefly passed out – entirely due to my malnourished state and the unrelenting tropical sun that so plagues my waking hours. When I recovered my senses I was lying under the shelter's awning and the wild man was bathing my face with water from the stream. He must be a native of this place, being darkly bronzed and with black hair whose spiky disarray has clearly never known the taming influence of civilization. His beard is full and dark, and only his oddly light eyes seem unusual for a native of these latitudes.

As I lay there taking in his appearance and determining that despite his fearsome aspect he seemed to mean me no harm, I was overtaken by a delicious aroma. He had propped branches over a fire, and was roasting several fish on sticks. My mouth watered and I am afraid that he had to restrain me to prevent me from grabbing the food out of the fire and injuring my hands. He made it clear, through gestures, clucking noises and facial contortions, that I was to remain in the shade, and he fetched the food for me on a palm leaf, blowing on it until it was cool enough to eat and removing the bones before he would let me near it.

I fear I made something of a beast of myself when he finally allowed me at the meal, and he seemed both startled and amused by my groans of pleasure, grinning at me, eyebrows raised. He has an expressive face, forested though it is by his beard, but his lack of words indicates that he lacks language entirely or more likely, knows no English. I tried communicating in the usual ways – pointing at myself and stating that I was Dr. Meredith Rodney McKay, the proud possessor of no less than two doctorates, but that he could call me Rodney. In retrospect this may have been an overly complex introduction, and it elicited another eyebrow-raise, a favorite expression of his, as I am coming to realize. Also the smile, although to be honest it is more what I would call a smirk – an expression with which I am only too familiar from my role in New Brunswick attempting to batter some little knowledge of physics and astronomy into moronic undergraduates.

In any event, he has grasped my name, and now calls me "Rodney", although drawing it out oddly into many more syllables than is necessary – his native tongue must tend towards vowels. His own name is less clear, as he merely points to his chest – impressively hairy and quite naked, which is strangely distracting – and grunts something like "Shep" or "Ship". I am unclear whether this is his name or his way of telling me he too was shipwrecked, or more likely, canoe-wrecked.

He might indeed have survived a prior shipwreck as he swims like the fishes he catches for our meals – perhaps he was a native guide? His ragged trousers are of canvas, however, but cut so short as to be positively indecent. His knife is sheathed in a pouch made of skins, and bears the Sheffield mark, but such knives are commonly traded in the islands.

Our first night was difficult, due to his knife and his visage, its wildness heightened by the fire's flickering light. I recalled tales of cannibals, and found myself gripped by fears that he had been lulling me into a false sense of security, all the while planning my demise under cover of darkness. Against this I tried to set the fact that in my initial unconsciousness he had made no move to slit my throat, but instead had cared for me most assiduously. These thoughts rattled around in my brain until I felt half-mad, sitting rigidly by the fire with my knife close at hand, casting anxious glances at my companion. Eventually he yawned and curled up in a hollow of sand, asleep almost instantly. My fears kept me upright until the moon had been swallowed by the sea, but at some point I succumbed to exhaustion, awakening at dawn sprawled out by the embers of the fire, my back aching abominably, while he puttered about opening a coconut for our breakfast. It was the first time I tasted the interior milk, cool and fresh, which he set aside before harvesting the meat. It would appear that he is not a cannibal, or at least that he is not yet hungry enough to eat me.

I have not elicited any further words from my fellow castaway, nor have I been able to teach him any English – he seems uninterested in learning my tongue and communicates through noises and touch – often grabbing my arm or my clothing to pull me along and show me something. It is both vexing and reassuring, and may explain the rapidity with which I have come to rely on him.

Shep (for so I have decided to call him) has been with me for barely three days. As a native of these parts he is a skilled fisherman, and his greater knowledge of our environs has set my mind at ease in some respects. The fearsome nocturnal screeching from the jungle, for example, he indicated was made by some night-bird, by flapping his arms and making a similar noise. His larynx is certainly in good working order, despite his reluctance to learn English.

Matters might have gone very differently had my wild friend not happened on me. I had neither flint nor tinder, and no art to make fire, nor were my forays into fishing a success and man cannot live by coconuts alone. I cannot help but see Shep as a gift of providence, sent by fortune to succor me in my time of need, although I realize this unscientific notion is an indicator of my desperation, and, most probably, of sunstroke. He is, of course, merely an unlearned savage, although adept at survival, so there is much I can do to repay him for my care. I foresee teaching him the rudiments of science and some knowledge of the stars, if his primitive mind can grasp such concepts. With his physical prowess and my intellect – which fortune has acted to preserve for the good of humanity, thanks to my hairy companion – we may yet achieve a boat of some sort, and make our escape from this damnable place.

\----ooOoo----

John crouched in the sand, binding lengths of split bamboo together with plaited vines. Rodney's latest project was a scheme to bring water from higher up the stream, where it tumbled down a bank. The hard work of constructing the makeshift aqueduct of course fell to John, while Rodney paced and calculated, drawing diagrams in the damp sand at the water's edge complete with mathematical formulas of flow and angular velocity. In his excitement, Rodney had made a calculation error, but John merely corrected for that in his head when angling the bracing supports under the main conduit.

He wondered, as he worked, at how rapidly he had assumed this role as Rodney's largely mute assistant. His own reticence and difficulty with words had played a part when Rodney had recovered from his initial faint and woken wide-eyed and full of questions, finding John tongue-tied. Rodney talked enough for both of them, of course, leaping to the assumption that John was incapable of speech, or at least of mastering English, and yes, that had angered John. Possibly it was why he had refused to speak at first, a habit that was proving hard to break.

Nearly three weeks had passed since John surprised Rodney into a faint by his appearance. In all that time John had not spoken any word but Rodney's name. Rodney, for his part, kept up a running commentary – on the island (John having drawn a map to demonstrate its shape, as he had long-since circumnavigated it) the weather, John's hairiness and general intransigence, his own brilliance, the beauty of physics, the idiocy of all other scientists in the Americas, and the importance of leadership. John let it wash over him like the sound of the waves, a soothing susurration. He caught their fish, gathered coconuts and dug a latrine while ignoring Rodney's detailed instructions, and took various steps to secure their supplies.

It could not continue; John knew that. But the longer he kept up this pretense of near-muteness and of being Rodney's man of all work, the harder it was to admit the truth – that he was the estranged son of a wealthy Virginian landowner and that he not only spoke English but was adept at mathematics and well-read in the classics. His father had taken a strap to his breeches if he dodged his tutors and shirked studying to hang around the stables and go riding, so he had been forced to gain a modicum of education, even if some lessons had to be managed standing up.

He was thirty now, long since shot of his father. That old life lay so far behind him as to seem dreamlike after more than ten years at sea, first as a deck-hand, then an able seaman, and finally, in that last, unlucky voyage, as second mate. He missed the horses but nothing else about his past life drew him back. His father had a more satisfactory son in Davey, always the good boy, praised where John was punished and not infected by the "daft liberal notions" his father had accused John of harboring.

The War of Southern Independence had struck when John was but seventeen and sickened by all he had seen of slavery on the family estates. After a final violent argument with his father he had stolen a horse and decamped to the coast, intending to take ship to the north and join the Union forces. He sold the horse to buy passage, but the blockade-runner he took ship with had her own agenda, and he found himself embarked on a life at sea, curiosity drawing him ever onward, from Europe to the spice routes and fast clippers crossing the Pacific Ocean. Until the storm that had brought him to this island. 

John shook his head, banishing the past as Rodney trudged over to peer at his work and pronounce it "Adequate, given the severely limited nature of the materials at hand." Rodney cocked his head and regarded John. "Your knots are most proficient. I wonder if you lived for some time on a sailing vessel, to learn such skill." He sketched a boat-shape with his hands. "A ship, were you on a _ship?_ "

"Shep?" asked John innocently, pointing at his chest with a hopeful grin. The pleasure gained from teasing Rodney was the other main reason he continued to play the wordless primitive.

Rodney huffed irritably. "Yes, yes, we know your name, although why you've mastered that and no other words is beyond me." He waved an imperious hand. "Come over here. I want to show you the valve mechanism."

John followed him to the shade of the shelter, where Rodney had been working. The valve was simple but ingenious, an effective stopper at the end of the conduit which was easily opened to release a stream of water for drinking or washing. Rodney had a knack for the mechanical, and John smiled and nodded, clapping him on the back enthusiastically. Rodney flushed pink and cleared his throat. "Yes, well. Luckily there are some uses for a degree in engineering apart from the tormenting of undergraduates."

They worked on, John completing the scaffolding and main conduit by nightfall, then breaking off to roast the last of the fish he'd caught that morning.

Rodney took the bowl from him with a sigh. "Wonderful though the addition of fish to my diet has been, I confess that after some weeks, the menu begins to pall. What I would not give for a plate of good Canadian bacon." He closed his eyes and moaned softly at the memory.

John's mouth watered in sympathy. Rodney began wolfing down his roast fish, and John ate more slowly, considering. They did need supplies, and if he could trap or spear one of the wild pigs then Rodney could have his bacon. John banked the fire and curled up in the mound of canvas-covered dried grass that served as a bed. Rodney had tried to make him sleep across the foot, but his habit of kicking out in the throes of dreams had led to rude awakenings, mutual glaring, and the relinquishing of half the sleeping pallet to John. Rodney snuffled beside him and John drifted off, sleepily planning an expedition to his old campsite.

The conduit was finished the next day at noon, John opening the top sluice with a flourish then scrambling down to join Rodney under the flow of cool water. They splashed each other and frolicked like children, tipping back their heads and drinking their fill. John persuaded Rodney to join him in stripping off his clothing and rubbing himself down with a black mud that John fetched from the jungle and smeared on his face against sunburn.

"Somewhat unsanitary," Rodney spluttered, "but the ancient Greeks used such a method to cleanse themselves after exercise, and we have no soap. I will pretend that I am at an expensive spa in the Alps, where such practices are, I gather, commonplace."

John's giggling earned him a gob of mud in the eye, and soon they were both covered, slippery and laughing. "I have made a right mess of you," Rodney said ruefully after washing himself off. He pulled John under the spout and cleaned mud from his hair and chest. "Turn around, so I can check your back, which at least is less hairy than the front of you." John flushed to feel Rodney's hands lingering on his skin, smoothing the flow of water down his back and buttocks. He shivered, feeling himself harden.

"I should not," muttered Rodney, "but it has been so long, and you don't seem to be objecting."

He pulled John back around and lifted his chin. John's cheeks were heated, despite the cool water coursing over them. He had had women, in the ports, and on some of his ships the Captain had turned a blind eye to sodomy on long Pacific voyages. He'd never been buggered as a youth, having been taken under the wing of a midshipman who'd protected John's virtue as long he could use John's mouth. That lasted until he learned stick and knife fighting from a Filipino sailor, and after that he'd made his own choices, taking pleasure only with those who caught his eye, but more often than not resorting to his hand in the scant privacy of a hammock.

Rodney drew John's head down and kissed him, pulling him out from under the flow of water, the better to taste John's mouth and lick inside. John shivered, opening to Rodney's tongue, his hands settling on Rodney's waist, sliding slick over warm, wet skin as they moved against each other.

They had danced around this outcome these past two weeks, watching each other covertly. Their isolation made proximity more intense – the touches necessitated by John's lack of speech, their shared bed, swimming together in the lagoon after John had speared their quota of fish. John had watched Rodney even before their first meeting, seen him strip off his clothes at the stream to do laundry and wash himself, heard him give way to despair and been startled by a rush of confused feelings.

Rodney was broad-shouldered, lean now after the voyage and their limited diet, but still giving an impression of solidity compared to John's wiry thinness. His ass was rounded and John longed to touch it. He did so now, slipping his hands around the globes of Rodney's buttocks and cupping him. Rodney groaned into his mouth then grabbed John's arm, dragging him into the shelter and pushing him down into their bedding.

"Can I? Is this?" he stammered, flushed and panting. John almost broke silence to say _yes, Rodney, please,_  but this was not the time to derail matters with such a slip. He answered Rodney with his hands, stroking down the fur of his belly and taking Rodney's cock in hand, running his callused thumb across the head until Rodney bucked into his touch, moaning. John flipped them, pinning Rodney's hips to the pallet as he nosed into the still-damp hair at his groin.

"Oh," gasped Rodney, "Yes, please, oh for the love of– _ngggh!_ " as John licked him, tonguing beneath the head as he grasped the shaft of Rodney's cock and then swallowed him down, pinning his hips as Rodney writhed and cried out. The canvas was harsh against John's swollen member so he got his knees beneath him and raised up a little, ass in the air and his hips thrusting helplessly against nothing as he sucked Rodney to completion, then spat into his hand and jerked himself off frantically, Rodney watching, dazed, as John straddled him, arm working and face flushed as he shuddered through his own release.

"Well," said Rodney later, voice hoarse, one hand combing through John's ragged hair, "it is just as well we have the washing spout." John, draped half across him in a slick of sweat and semen, managed an inarticulate grunt, for once genuinely wordless.

\----ooOoo----

Journal of Dr. M. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD.  
Day 42 upon this island

We are embarked on an expedition to the center of the island, after much gesturing and eye-rolling by my companion to assure me that no fearsome predators lie in wait. Shep's demeanor has altered as we move into what I concede is his natural domain. He leads me onward, alert for any noise and communicating through baffling hand signals, his knife at the ready. Reassured though I am of his readiness to protect me, I am at a loss to determine what may threaten us if he has been frank about the lack of tigers or pythons. Surely pigs cannot be such dire adversaries?

It is no hardship however, to follow him, and the flex and slide of his lean muscles mesmerizes me as he coaxes me up the spine of the island, hacking a path for us through the denser thickets. I am equally distracted imagining slabs of pork crackling on the fire, and the uses to which we may put the rendered lard, once he has slaughtered an unlucky pig.

These last few days since we finished the water spout are etched in my memory. My muscles ache from our athletic couplings, and I blush to record the imaginative solutions we have found to our lack of grease or oil. I did not know a tongue could breach me there, nor that it would make me so crazed with pleasure that I begged to be taken. He has not yet fucked me, no matter my pleas or protestations. Last night he slicked himself with his own ejaculate and rode me until I spent myself within him; I may have briefly lost consciousness in the throes of passion. If his tongue and fingers alone can render me mindless with lust, I fear I may not survive actual penetration. I am, however, a man of science, and will gladly venture where he leads, in the name of exploration.

I wish we could talk properly, but he says so much with kisses and touches that I cannot mistake his affection. Society would damn our union as unspeakably depraved, but to me it brings joy such as I have never known. I have searched my conscience for signs that I am oppressing him but truly, he seems to want this as much as I do. For my part, I am shipwrecked anew by these feelings. Perhaps it is our circumstances, thrown together here with no others for company, but I feel I have known him far longer than these scant few weeks.

After some hours of sweaty clambering through the jungle, we came upon Shep's old campsite which is to be our base for hunting. He showed me a tree carved with notches – a primitive calendar – and spread his hands wide to indicate "and even more". He has been on the island many months, then, but when I ask for details – did he come by ship, by canoe? – he smirks at me and ruffles my hair. Annoying, but I am so far gone that even his imperfections please me, and how did I become such a mawkish girl-child, fainting and mooning over my beau? I would despair, were I not so disgustingly happy.

Despite this bliss I have bouts of anxiety. Perhaps I am "maddened by love", a phrase I recall from one of Kaleb's poems. I scoffed at my sister for marrying a poet, but now I must eat my words. Or his words. I called Shep a gift of providence and so he is, but gifts can be rescinded, or lost, and I would not survive (would not _want_  to survive), should I lose him. I was ever given to worrying – a natural tendency in one of my superior intellect, as unlike the common herd I see the potential calamities lurking everywhere in the humdrum of daily life. Not that my life is humdrum any more. But my instincts balk at being so exposed to the vagaries of fate. My sister would laugh and reproach me, but our quarreling parents ill-fitted me to trust that such happiness can last.

Yet last it must, for I can tolerate no other outcome. If I must live out my life on this island to be with him, so be it. I see now how foolish I was to assume that my role here was governance. He has mastered my heart and in this small kingdom, he is king, and I his adoring subject.

I find myself somewhat aghast at the nature of this journal entry, even by my present, love-addled standards. Exhaustion from the day's exertions has taken its literary toll I fear – that, and my hunger. Shep has brought biscuits and dried fish and is stewing our meal over a small fire.  The stars are not visible here in the jungle, so we cannot lie side by side gazing up while I name the constellations. We did that two nights ago, and Shep did not repeat their names, but squeezed my hand after each one, and seemed most interested. He may be unschooled but his native intelligence is clearly evident.

Even without the stars, I am sure we will find other means to while away the evening. My legs ache, so perhaps I can persuade him to rub my weary muscles. I am sure there are parts of his anatomy where the application of my hand would prove welcome, and it is only polite to reciprocate. I am, after all, Canadian. But first, dinner, before the night's diversions, for tomorrow we hunt.

\----ooOoo----

John gestured at Rodney to stay well back, behind the roots of the banyan tree. He had tracked a family of pigs to this hillside, and the trail showed recent use. He crouched in the undergrowth, knife at the ready, peering into green gloom further down the trail. 

The eruption of noise surprised him, coming from behind the banyan in the opposite direction to his surveillance.

"Hah! Got you!" shouted Rodney triumphantly.

John was on his feet in seconds, running across the clearing to where scuffling, grunts and shrill squeals filled the air. It was hard to tell which was man and which was pig, but on balance it seemed that Rodney had caught himself a piglet.

John rounded the buttress of the banyan trunk to find Rodney struggling with a small, dark brown, hairy pig. He cast about desperately, listening to the forest sounds, but Rodney and his captive were making too much noise. Then he heard it, a much deeper roar of rage and a heavy body crashing through branches.

"Rodney!" he yelled. "Let it go, get away!"

Rodney froze, eyes wide and mouth open. The piglet wrenched itself free and skittered away between his legs, vanishing into the bush with an angry squeal. John grabbed Rodney's arm and dragged him back around the banyan buttress, away from the approaching adult. "Stay down," he ordered curtly, turning to meet the oncoming boar.

It was not a boar that crashed into the clearing, snorting and pawing at the ground, but the piglet's mother. Half the size of a wild boar, but twice as enraged in defense of her young.

"You _talked…_ " muttered Rodney plaintively behind him. He sounded dazed, unbelieving, but John had no focus for anything but the angry sow ahead. He moved into the clearing to draw the beast away from Rodney, praying that the damn fool would stay put and not venture out into harm's way.

"Come on, then," he goaded the sow, "come on, you–" and she charged. Fast, so damn fast, and he ducked to one side as she missed him by a hairsbreadth and wheeled around, turning to corner them, Rodney ahead of her, trapped by the tall spreading buttresses.

"No!" John spat, hurling himself at the sow as she gathered herself for another charge, wrestling her down before she could threaten Rodney. She tried to gore him with her tusks but he got his knife in under her throat and ripped viciously, blood spraying vivid red from the deep wound as he rode her down into the mud. The sow gave a terrible gurgling scream, kicked out convulsively, and died, slumping to the forest floor and trapping John's arm underneath her.

John lay there, filthy and panting in the mud and blood. He tried to extricate his arm, but the angle was awkward and the sow a dead weight. "Rodney?" he called hoarsely, then coughed, his voice rough with disuse. "Can you? Thing's on my arm. Need your help."

He heard Rodney approach tentatively from behind and craned up, trying to see him. "Is it dead?" Rodney asked, his voice shaky.

"Yes, she's dead," said John. His throat was dry. "Can you?" He gestured at the pig with his blood-spattered knife hand. "Help push her off."

They rolled the sow, freeing John's left arm, and he massaged it, wincing. Just bruised, no broken bones if he was any judge. He kept his eyes lowered, not looking at Rodney. Hell.

"So you can speak," said Rodney. He sounded strained, and John risked a glance up at his face. Rodney's mouth was tight-lipped and slanting, unhappy. His eyes were huge and dark in the dim light. "Why would you?–" He made a frustrated gesture.

"Don't know," croaked John, looking down again. He cleared his throat and tried to swallow. God, his mouth was dry. "Sorry?" He peered up at Rodney. "Got used to not talking, when I was here alone. Got to be a habit."

Rodney frowned. "You're American. I thought you were," he flailed angrily, "from the islands. Like Man Friday." His face twisted. "I hope you enjoyed the joke."

John's stomach clenched. "No, I, um…" He coughed, swallowing with difficulty. "Not a joke. I, it was stupid. Just, you assumed, and I…" He made a vague gesture. "I let you."

"Yes, more fool me." Rodney looked small and pale in the greenish light of the trees, bitter lines framing his expressive mouth. He took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair, knocking out small twigs and leaves. "Are you hurt?"

"No," muttered John, wanting to fix this but not knowing how to set matters right between them. He stood, looking around. "We should leave this place. The boar might be somewhere about."

"There are more of these beasts?" asked Rodney, peering fearfully into the shadows. He jabbed John painfully in the breast. "And you! You told me it was safe here, no tigers or snakes!"

"Ow." John winced. "There are no tigers, and I've seen no snakes in my time here. The pigs are the deadliest animals on the island."

"Which you could have _warned_  me about, had you not been playing the mute savage and keeping me in ignorance."

John kicked at the dirt, flushing. "We should…" he tried again.

"Yes, yes, more ferocious pigs, make good our escape, quite so." Rodney glared at John, then at the sow. "But I cannot carry this carcass, nor I think, can you manage it alone." His face crumpled. "I had at least hoped for a decent dinner, even if the companion whom I trusted has been duping me." 

"Together," muttered John. "Carry it together. I'll get a," he waved his bruised hand vaguely, then winced. "A thing."

"'A thing'," Rodney sneered, throwing up his hands and stalking back to slump against the banyan trunk, pointedly facing away from John who could hear him muttering angrily. "Clearly his grasp of language has atrophied from lack of use."

Hauling a sturdy tree branch down, John tore it away from the trunk with his uninjured hand then secured the sow to it by binding vines around her trotters, using his his teeth to help tighten the knots. Rodney, still muttering under his breath, returned when John called and with the sow suspended, they managed with some difficulty to carry their prize to the campsite, where Rodney collapsed, declaring himself too weary and heartsore for dinner.

John felt equally dispirited, but he knew that the carcass must be gutted immediately to avoid putrefaction. His death-blow had bled it out, but in this heat some immediate means of preserving the meat had to be found. He would smoke it for now, and then once they returned to the beach he could boil down salt water to a concentrated brine and pickle Rodney's bacon in one of the intact barrels they had salvaged from the wreck. Perhaps that would eventually reinstate him in Rodney's good graces, if the old adage about the way to a man's heart carried any weight.

By the time John had wiped the last blood from his hands in the damp undergrowth, dusk was falling. Exhausted, he fell into a bed of leaves some distance from Rodney, half an eye on the gutted, jointed carcass smoking over a banked fire stoked with green wood, under a thick mound of fronds.

Rodney had sat silently through all of John's labors, scribbling on notepaper until the light failed. He largely ignored John, accepting a handful of biscuits for his supper with no more than a sniff. Fighting off sleep, John was aware that Rodney was lying there staring at him. Finally, Rodney crawled over and shook him by the arm. John blinked up at him, confused.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," Rodney said, "and I find myself unable to sleep until I know."

John peered at him, puzzled.

Rodney gestured impatiently. "Your _name_. What is your name?"

"Oh," John sat up, cradling his bruised arm in his lap. "John. John Sheppard." He extended his right hand cautiously towards Rodney, as a man might do to a dog known to bite. "At your service."

Rodney snorted, unamused. "Hence the 'Shep'." He ignored John's proffered hand and returned to his own bed of leaves. "A likely story," he muttered, curling up on his side away from John.

"Sorry," whispered John again, into the quiet.

After some time, Rodney began snoring.

\--------

There was no reason to linger at the campsite so they made an early start. The meat was cooked through, tinged red-brown from the fire and still warm when John packed it into squares torn from a canvas sail, taking the larger load and tying a smaller bundle to Rodney's back.

The tension between them had not eased after a night's sleep, which in John's case had been restless and unsatisfying. Rodney maintained a brooding silence, speaking only when this was unavoidable.

As he trudged down the hillside on the trail he had cleared two days ago, John wondered if their roles were now to be reversed, with Rodney largely mute, and John, the more naturally reticent, forced into awkward conversational sallies. He did not think Rodney, to whom speech was as necessary as breathing, could maintain this stance indefinitely, and he knew himself incapable of small talk for any length of time.

Rodney proved remarkably stubborn though, occupying himself with long walks and the repair of any equipment they had rescued from the waves. Even the first meal of roast pork on the evening of their return did not long improve his mood, although it elicited the usual moans and slurping sounds, tormenting John with memories of past pleasure. Rodney untangled and cleaned several pulleys and set up a water barrel beside the washing spout, extending the bamboo aqueduct several yards to the latrine. It was not quite a water closet, given its al fresco nature, but their sanitary facilities were now better than those of many private houses in which John had stayed, and the view was far superior.

John forced himself to attempt normal conversation, but his efforts to engage Rodney in a dialogue were ignored, only practical questions drawing a brief response. He determined to show his repentance through actions rather than words, fashioning a tight-woven basket which he coated with clay and then used to boil down seawater for the pickling brine. He spent more time fishing as well, drying part of the catch until he had accumulated a store of fish beside the bacon barrel.

Rodney was not often angry, an emotion John felt he could have tolerated, or at least understood. His mood was rather that of bitter resignation and he focused all his energies on practical tasks or on scribbling notes, diagrams and formulas on his slowly dwindling supply of notepaper.

John watched him, frowning. Clearly a significant gesture would be needed to break this impasse. He had in mind just such a project, but they would need more supplies, and he would have to persuade Rodney to accompany him on another expedition. Given the outcome of their last such exploit, he suspected this might take some doing.

\----ooOoo----

Journal of Dr. M. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD.  
Day 53 upon this island

I long to lay the blame for this disaster at the feet of the perfidious Mr Sheppard, as his deception has left me quite undone, but in truth I cannot. Reading my journal of several days ago is a cause for self-loathing, and I rack my brains to comprehend how my reason could have been so abruptly overturned. I fear I was but hours away from composing some saccharine poem myself, which would be grounds for self-murder.

I cannot imagine how I could forget the lessons in mistrust learned at the hands of those masters, my parents, and reinforced by various inconstant lovers. The tropical sun must have curdled my mental faculties and I have resumed wearing my hat, having abandoned it, I now realize, in a futile effort to make myself more appealing to Sheppard, rather than a figure of fun. This, as has been brought cruelly home to me, is both pointless and impossible as he was laughing at me all along, despite my best efforts. Besides, my hair is not thick enough to prevent sunburn on the crown of my head, another source of humiliation given his overabundance of hair.

Curse the man, drawing my every thought back to him despite my best efforts to overcome this error of judgement and assume an appropriate and distant acquaintance. It is the proximity, the inescapability of our shipwrecked state, and my lack of practical skills other than in engineering and the stars. If I believed that I could survive alone, I should remove myself to the far side of the island to rid myself of his troubling presence.

The problem lies in his very physicality. He is so utterly _here_ , semi-naked and damnably attractive. I am constantly assaulted by glimpses of his bronzed body, lean and well-muscled, as he moves about the campsite or stands patiently, poised with his spear above a likely fish. His eyes watch me when he thinks I do not see him, and having him this close is torture when I know I cannot touch him, cannot risk letting myself sink back into that deranged, lovesick state in which I would be unable to guard my heart against betrayal.

For what else could result when our liaison was founded on lies from the first? I learned the perils of trust at my mother's knee, watching as she and my father destroyed their marriage with bitter words. Jeannie calls me a misanthropist and does not share my bleakness, but I protected her from the worst so she retains some romantic delusions. I have not forgiven her for eloping with a _poet_ , however – a criminal waste. Her mind was nearly as sharp as mine, but of course our father refused her a proper education and I could only rectify that to some degree.

My early schooling in cynicism was rammed home by later attempts at connection. April, my high school sweetheart, infected me with a fever and promptly abandoned me for the captain of the hockey team, in a double assault. Peter, a fellow astronomy student to whom I was drawn having decided that men might perhaps be less faithless than the female sex, also proved flawed. I was forced to throw him out of our shared rooms one evening after a long stint at the university telescope when on returning, I discovered him in a compromising position with my tutor.

After that I vowed to allow no one into my heart, steeling myself and repelling all suitors with my acid tongue. In any event, my work genuinely consumes me so the fewer distractions the better. My academic prowess has been meteoric, albeit ill-paid, as a direct result. Here, though, there is nothing to distract me save the need to escape this impossible situation. I have built small model rafts and tried sailing them in tide-pools. The trees hereabouts do not, however look promising, nor do I have the means to fell them. Perhaps fire might be used, but I have no wish to incinerate the jungle.

I could ask Sheppard, and doubtless it is my hurt pride that holds me back from drawing on his local knowledge. I am not yet ready to be civil however, not after the way he treated me. I cannot trust him, but more to the point, I cannot trust myself. 

\----ooOoo----

John cleared his throat, nervous. They were seated near the fire at some distance from each other, after the nightly meal. He had to broach this now, before Rodney removed himself to bed.

"I have built a raft," he said, as there seemed no point beating about the bush.

Rodney's eyes narrowed. "When? You have not left this beach since we…since the pig."

John rubbed his neck. "Yes, I know. Not now, I mean I built it before." He shot Rodney a glance. "Before we met."

"And you saw no need to mention this earlier?" Rodney's mouth thinned. "No, of course not. Why would you be honest with me if you could lie or conceal."

John flushed. "I was not _concealing_  it, but events overtook me. You have not been…approachable, since I confessed my ability to speak."

"I wonder _why,_ " muttered Rodney, with an eye roll.

John clenched his jaw. "It is about two days' journey up the coast, near the place where I was washed ashore. The currents carry wreckage to that beach when the winds are from the north." John frowned. "It is not seaworthy–"

"You _amaze_ me, Sheppard," cut in Rodney with a sneer. "I am filled with trepidation to see how you have squandered what resources you had. But if it is fixable, I will repair it."

John gritted his teeth, tempted to tell Rodney where he could put the damned raft. He took a deep breath. Rodney was good at construction, so even if their relationship were beyond repair, perhaps the raft was not. They might still have a small chance of escape and eventual rescue. "Then you will come with me up the beach, to inspect my _inadequate handiwork?_ " 

He gave the words a sarcastic twist, but Rodney seemed oblivious. "Yes, yes, that goes without saying. Of course it will be inadequate, if it was not made to my specifications. How did you obtain the wood?"

"There is an axe at that encampment, salvaged from the clipper that brought me to these parts. Also a grove of suitable trees with lightweight wood and straight trunks – the islanders use them to make outriggers."

"An axe?" exclaimed Rodney, leaning forward. "And you were planning to mention this _when?_ "

"I just did," protested John, annoyed. "I promise that I am not hiding anything from you, Rodney. Not any more."

"I would prefer that you call me Dr. McKay," said Rodney, pursing his lips.

"Oh for…" John rubbed his neck again; his head ached.  "Very well, but I am not resorting to titles when we are barefoot and unshaven. I will call you McKay, if you insist."

"I do insist," said Rodney, unbending.

John sighed and rubbed his face. "I have made a fine mess of this, haven't I?"

Rodney was silent, and on glancing up, John saw that he was staring out to sea, looking drawn and weary.

"Look, McKay," tried John. "I'm sorry, and clearly you're not feeling like forgiving me any time soon, but we cannot manage to repair the raft or to sail her unless we act as a team. You're going to have to unbend a little and talk to me, at least about the pragmatics."

"I don't work well in teams," said Rodney, frowning. "Or so I have been told. I have always outstripped my peers – in truth, I have not _had_  real peers since commencing university when I was but fifteen years of age. The others made fun of me, more so when I easily bested them in examinations. I work best independently."

"That explains a great deal," said John, feeling a pang of sympathy and recalling Rodney's shock and sadness on learning that John had not been honest with him. It was sometimes hard to see the hurt child behind Rodney's prickly carapace, especially when he was determined to be an ass. "But we must work together or we will not succeed, so even though you are angry with me, you must make the best of it."

"I am not angry," muttered Rodney, looking away again, "or not with you. I should have known better." He turned back. "But enough of this nonsense. You must tell me about the raft and its construction." He shuffled closer, his eyes dark and piercing, fixed on John. "I want every detail, every measurement. Leave nothing out."

John swallowed, caught in the lens of Rodney's focused attention. It would be some time before either of them slept, he thought. "There are ten logs," he began, "and four cross-braces."

Rodney held up an admonitory finger. "Wait, I must take notes." He hurried into the shelter to find paper and a pencil, returning with a coconut shell lamp John had made out of pig-fat and a canvas wick. He made John hold the lamp up for optimal light. "Now," said Rodney, "how have you secured these logs?"

\----ooOoo----

Journal of Dr. M. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD.  
Day 65 upon this island

Embarking on our journey up the coast has taken an interminable time. Sheppard insisted we gather more supplies before he would consider leaving, and I packed up tools and equipment – in which we are sadly lacking – while he stitched the partly-cured pigskin into a water flask. He has some sewing skills it seems – he says all sailors do – and he used sinews from the pig, fashioning a needle from a fish bone and scraping down the hide which had been soaking in strong brine. It will last us the journey, as Sheppard says there are other streams we will cross en route, to replenish it.

All this has been tedious in the extreme, as I am fired with the need to see this makeshift raft and begin construction. First we must demolish the current shambles to begin anew, as from Sheppard's account he has made a dog's breakfast of the project. He is lucky to have my expertise to help remedy his shoddy workmanship. Tempting though it is to needle him, I must curb my tongue and remember that he is uneducated in the science of engineering, although his sailing skills may yet prove useful. Together with my knowledge of celestial navigation, I feel far more confident that we may yet escape this shore and regain civilization.

Sheppard and I are a little more at ease. A shared goal has smoothed the rough edges of our conflict, and we are, if not comrades, at least colleagues. So shall it remain; I have learned my lesson and will not overstep these bounds.

\-------

We are arrived at Sheppard's beach, and I have resumed my journal, having not attempted it on our journey north, my equipment being packed away and writing difficult. Also, walking in sand is exhausting and we fell asleep directly after supper, only managing a little discussion about the raft.

The raft! It is, as I had concluded, entirely inadequate, but the basic materials are sound, and Sheppard will fell more trees for me as an outrigger for counterbalancing makes sound engineering sense. He had, of course, not thought how the vessel was to be steered or propelled, so I am designing a rudder and mast-fitting. He can advise on the rigging of our sail, and he has an expanse of salvaged canvas set aside. More needlework lies in his future.

An unexpected boon awaited us, cast up on the beach since Sheppard was last here, half buried in sand and seaweed. I fell upon it, brushing off the outer casing (somewhat the worse for wear), and there lay my telescope, intact. The benefits of balsa wood packaging! We were most heartened.

Ideas and enthusiasm fill me, and Sheppard seems just as enlivened by our shared venture. We are becoming a good team, I think, despite my past negative experiences in this regard and our unfortunate beginnings. I must pause this account now to test the tensile strength of lianas Sheppard thinks will serve to bind the main platform together. Rope is sadly lacking and must be preserved for the rigging. Besides, I want to hear more from Sheppard about tacking and the use of a boom, as I think we have only enough canvas for one sail, so we must rig her for maximum maneuverability.

I foresee only one area of conflict looming ahead. Sheppard cannot be allowed to name our vessel, the options he has so far suggested being ludicrous in the extreme. Something stately yet accurate is, I think, required, given the gravity of our undertaking. I am leaning towards _Pacific Conqueror,_ myself. Sheppard rolls his eyes at this, declaring it too fanciful for a "little puddlejumper". His flawed heap of timber might have deserved such a title, but my ship (I cannot think of her as a mere raft), when perfected, will need a more suitable appellation. In this I am resolved, and no wheedling or eyebrow-waggling on his part will sway me.

\----ooOoo----

Work on the raft continued apace, and Rodney relaxed further, happy with their progress. John was relieved that they seemed at least friends again, able to bait and tease each other without causing offense. It was good to use his education in debates with Rodney about torque, thrust and the best rudder shape, after the less challenging mental life he had led as a sailor. The first mate on the clipper had begun teaching him to navigate by the stars, and Rodney was the expert in that field so they often lay in the sand after supper taking turns with the telescope, discussing constellations.

One warm, clear night, John thought back to the first time Rodney had shown him the stars. He’d known them all and had wanted to show off his knowledge, but instead had just squeezed Rodney’s hand. His idiocy had lost them that easy physical connection, and John ached, wondering if this was all he would ever have now: friendship, companions thrown together by chance who would, if rescued, part company and go their own ways. The strength of his reaction to that thought took him by surprise and he reached out, grasping Rodney’s hand.

Rodney stopped abruptly, mid-way through an explanation about the Pleiades in the Southern and Northern skies, and stared over at John. He was utterly still, and John found he was holding his own breath as well. “I…ah,” said Rodney in a slightly strangled tone. He disengaged his hand and patted John’s briefly, then folded his hands on his chest like a marble crusader. The message was clear, and John fought down disappointment.

Friends and no more, then. He would take what he could get.

\----ooOoo----

Journal of Dr. M. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD.  
Day 79 upon this island

I write with a trembling hand, by lamplight.

Needing more wood for the planking we ventured up the coast to another stand of the tall, straight saplings most suited to the task. Felling them and dragging them back occupied much of the day, and necessitated a short trek inland, away from the coast.

When we emerged from the forest, the skies were gray with rolling thunderclouds and lightning stabbed down into the sea far offshore. The waves were high, crashing ominously on the beach, and we agreed to stack the wood and retrieve it later, hastening back to check on our campsite.

John was the first to glimpse disaster. The raft was stationed above the high tide line, but this was not a normal day, and the tide was far higher than usual, pushed on by the storm. Our vessel was floating, tossed about in the heavy surf and in danger of drifting onto a reef.

With a cry, John dashed into the water, ignoring my pleas that he preserve himself, even if the raft was lost. He is a strong swimmer, but the surf was brutal and what glimpses I managed to catch made it clear that he was tiring. Even should John gain the raft, she still lacked a rudder and would cause him to be swept out to sea all the faster.

I grasped our coiled rope, carefully spliced by John into a single long strand, and stood knee-deep, trying to hurl it out to where John clung to the raft, tossed this way and that by the waves. It took three attempts, each time with a heavier rope as the fibers took up water, but eventually I saw him grasp one end and tie it around a cross-strut, hooking his arm over the rope.

Damn him for a foolhardy idiot: instead of climbing up to relative safety on the deck, John clearly intended to remain in the dangerous water and help me pull her in. What now? I had not the strength to haul both John and the raft in bodily. The logs would be heavy and saturated – she was riding low in the water. More flotation needed: I made a mental note.

A coconut palm near the water’s edge provided the solution and I looped the rope around it and hauled mightily back towards the sea, using its trunk as a pulley to enhance the force dragging John and the raft towards the shore. For a few terrible minutes I was sure the rope would break, or that I would not be able to overcome the raft’s inertia. Both our vessel and John would be swept out to sea and lost.

I do not recall the rest clearly, just a violent rejection of the mere possibility of John’s death which conferred on me a preternatural strength. A lucky reversal of the waves, working in our favor, got the rope moving, and I hauled with all my strength, pulling it through my hands so that it coiled at my feet. John, the fool, was trying to swim and guide the raft, and I had very nearly got them to the shallows when the raft rocked wildly on a wave and struck him on the head.

I tied the rope off frantically and splashed into the angry sea, struggling out chest deep to where he was slumped half submerged, one arm still hooked over the rope. Had the storm not already been calming I fear we would both have been lost, and all our hard work. As it was, I managed to drag him to shore where he vomited up water, coughing weakly. When I was sure he was breathing more normally I returned to the tree and dragged the raft further out of the waves, which were slowly subsiding.

John is in our shelter here now, under the awning I built when we arrived. It is not cold – it is never truly cold –  but I cannot seem to stop shivering. He is curled against my chest and appears to be asleep. Although briefly stunned by the raft, his head seems intact and only bruised. Being a heroic fool, he must needs have a harder head than most.

I almost lost him. This realization has brought home to me what a fool _I_  have been – greater than John whose actions, although rash, were aimed only at preserving our means of escape. No, I am a fool of a different, more ungrateful sort, too cowardly and stubborn to take the gift John offered. If he had died I should not long have survived, but, I now see, I should not have _wanted_ to survive.

All I can do is hold him and await the morning.

\----ooOoo----

John woke to sticky warmth and a hand carding carefully through his hair, avoiding a tender swelling above his right ear. “Ow,” he complained weakly, burrowing in further before realizing that he was sprawled across Rodney, and that his head and chest both hurt.

“Hold still,” fussed Rodney. “You are half-drowned and most likely concussed, although how anything can get through that mop of hair to assault you is beyond me.”

Ignoring the gibe, John did an inventory of injuries. He had a mild headache, but he’d been concussed before and he didn’t think this was as bad. His chest ached a little, but – he twisted experimentally – there were no cracked ribs. “I’m fine, Rodney. Will you let me up?”

Rodney considered this as though it were a serious question rather than a polite request, so John wriggled out from his embrace before he could say no. He needed a little space in which to  determine what in hell was going on. Then he remembered: “The raft!” He leapt to his feet, squinting into the bright sunlight. All seemed well, the raft high and dry, although not situated quite where it had been before, and tied to a tree with coils of rope.

He ducked back into the shelter, dropping down beside Rodney. “Is it undamaged?”

“In the main, yes. Nothing serious.” He narrowed his eyes. “Thanks to you being stupidly heroic, as a result of which I was forced to rescue you.”

John snorted. “Sorry.”

Rodney shrugged. “We can take turns. I owed you a rescue after you saved me from the ferocious pig.” He bit his lip. “I have been ungrateful. I should have thanked you for that, instead of chastising you.”

John’s eyebrows went up. “Are you Rodney McKay, or have you been replaced by mischievous pixies?”

“I hardly know, myself,” said Rodney. He frowned at John. “Are you sure you are well? We cannot have you developing an ague.” He went to touch John’s forehead then flinched, pulling back his hand. John looked at it, then at its partner: the palms were rubbed raw with abrasions.

John took Rodney’s battered hands in his own. “From the rope?” he asked.

“Yes,” confirmed Rodney. “I fear I will have to ask you to assist me until they are less painful.”

“I should be happy to,” said John, leaning in and brushing a kiss to Rodney’s cheek. “Is there anything in particular I can lend you a hand with this morning?”

Rodney let his head fall back and John kissed his neck, mouthing the soft skin below his ear. “I am sure you will find some useful activity,” Rodney gasped. “But if you would address it as a matter of urgency I would greatly appreciate it.”

John grinned, sucking on Rodney’s lower lip and then tilting his head for a leisurely kiss. He slid his hand into Rodney’s ragged trousers and stroked his cock. Rodney whined, arching up. “Is this the urgent matter in question?” John slid his thumb across the head and let Rodney fuck his hand a little. 

“Damn you!” panted Rodney. “You, you tease!” He moaned, making an abortive grab for John then recalling his injured hands, letting them flop back above his head out of harm’s way.

John growled softly in his throat at this, kneeling over Rodney as he kissed him deeply, sucking on Rodney’s tongue and working his cock. 

“More,” groaned Rodney, “oh, please, John, _John!_ ”

John pulled down his ragged, hacked-off pants and dipped his hand in the now-extinguished lamp. He took both their cocks in his grease-slicked hand and jerked them slowly, ignoring Rodney’s demands for _more_ and _faster_.

“Patience,” John whispered, his lips against Rodney’s neck. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Ungh,” whimpered Rodney, “Nnnng, oh, ohhhh!” and he came, hot in John’s hand.

Wordlessness, reflected John, was not always a bad thing. 

\----ooOoo----

 

 

Epilogue:

 

February 1875  
Dear Jeannie

I trust all is well with you and Kaleb and Madison. Please forgive me for sending no word of my doings these many months past - as you may have heard, several ships from the expedition to observe the Transit from Hawaii were wrecked in a storm, my vessel among them.

I have thus been marooned all this time, and should undoubtedly have died were there not a fellow-castaway on my island, one John Sheppard. We have become good friends, and together built a raft on which we escaped, with only the stars to guide us. We were again lucky, sighting a steamer through my telescope after several days at sea and managing to signal her. Thus were we rescued, and have made our way to San Francisco, a very lively city.

I think we shall settle here for a while, as we are embarking on a nautical business venture. John is a skilled sailor and I have a number of patents underway.

Once we have made our fortunes we will, I hope, have time to visit you in New Brunswick. My university post there will be long gone - doubtless now filled by some bumbling academic who will fail to keep the undergraduate hordes in check. I suggest you give the science wing a wide berth, as they will very likely destroy it out of sheer stupidity.

San Francisco has its share of fools, of course, and if we tire of them we may return to our island for respite.

Kiss Madison for me, and my love to you all, even Kaleb.

Your brother, Rodney McKay

 

 

\- the end -


End file.
